Dent
by about-faces
Summary: Newly-elected D.A. Harvey Dent faces down crime and corruption in Gotham City. Will it cost him his sanity? Of course it will, you know that...but why? Presenting the tragic origins of Two-Face and his gradual descent into madness, from beginning to end.
1. Prologue

_**Disclaimer:** Don't own, don't sue._

**_Please be advised, this story contains: _**_Alcoholism, brief mentions of child abuse, graphic violence, profanity, character death, sexual content_

_**A/N**: _My original intention with this story was to tell the ultimate Harvey Dent origin, one which would draw on the best of comics canon. Five years and ten drafts later, it has evolved far beyond those goals, becoming something much more personal and original while still remaining faithful to the characters and stories that inspired me. At the urging of BiteMeTechie, I'm posting this here. Enjoy! :)__

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><p>Half the time, I didn't know what to make of my father.<p>

Mom always brought out the best in him, but even still, I know she was torn. It's one of the few things I remember about her. By everyone's account, she was a saint, and some would say literally. She burned for that man. Deep down, under the love and obligation and politeness, I think she hated him.

No, wait, hate's too strong a word. That wasn't her. She just hated him when he wasn't home. With us. Because that meant he was at the casino's barroom, throwing down the family money. On the dice, on the rocks. But he always came home with at least a little more in his pockets than he took, so what could she say? Luck was on our side in those days. Most days.

It's funny, y'know, they called him Double-Down Dent. Like he was a real tough-guy gangster. Back then, Christopher Dent was virtually a celebrity around Moroni's. You know Moroni's? Of course you do. I mean the original one, right on the cusp between the Narrows and uptown. I heard it was nice: a place where yuppie rubes could feel like they're splurging on opulence while dead crooners play overhead.

It was all bullshit, of course. A façade. These days, it's still strictly VIP's, no poseurs or narcs allowed, but they don't even bother pretending anymore. Used to be you'd have to slip in through the back, or past a maze of halls and guarded doors to find a three-tired amphitheater backed by a bar stretching a mile long. A big band and singer, usually a smoky-throated pale woman poured into velvet, keeping the rhythm going as men guffaw and sob and curse over the dealer's tables.

The real Moroni's. The joint looks like Heaven if Hell's management took over.

And back then, the wiseguys loved Dad. He wasn't in the life, but when he was riding high, he'd buy drinks all around: one for everyone, and two more for himself. All hail Double-Down Dent, Ruler of Roulette. King of Craps. Baron of Bunk.

In my job, I've met some of the used-up old guys who knew him, back in those glory days. When Dad's the topic, the nostalgia high briefly overwhelms whatever's coursing through their veins or brains or lungs, and they just light up. Like they were reminiscing about their oldest friend in the world.

They used to say that he could have entered politics. A Dent in public office. Crazy, right? Laughable. But they say Double-Down could have taken that entire room of mobsters, celebrities, politicians, and old money, and just wrapped them in his hand like a pair of dice.

Sometimes, I just wish I could have seen that side of him. Just once. Instead, all we ever saw was the aftermath.

I mean, sure, he'd come home some nights with the stink on him, but he wasn't out of control. Not really. He'd always make sure to stumble back home so that when he'd pass out, it'd be in his own bed. And sure, it got worse once he stopped winning and started losing. Maybe fate or karma had come to collect on all the good luck he had. If you believe in that sort of thing. But at least he had her. She's what kept him grounded. What kept him going.

And then, not long after my eighth birthday, she was gone. The cancer was quick, small blessings. Those days were hard and only getting harder, but at least we had each other. We always had each other.

Listen. Even when he blew all his cash the night before, he always, always made sure I never went hungry. There were several nights where he'd go without, just so I wouldn't. You understand? No matter how far into the bottle he fell, no matter how… black his bitterness was, he wanted to make absolutely certain that I would be strong enough to live in this city. Because he knew that if I wasn't, it wouldn't even chew me up and spit me out. Gotham would swallow me whole.

So. A couple months after Mom died, we were sitting in the living room watching a Barry Hanson rerun. I was on the couch in a t-shirt and shorts, fanning myself with a newspaper. The sweat on my palms turned black from the newsprint. Dad was in his easy chair, a fresh whiskey and club soda—on the rocks—in his hand.

Barry was defending a woman whose son, a boy about my age, had gone missing. She'd been falsely accused of foul play, and was being tormented by Barry's nemesis, District Attorney Tallman. D.A.'s have never been the good guys in those stories. But of course, thanks to Barry playing both detective and defense, the day was saved. Evil was punished, the D.A. was thwarted, and mother and son were tearfully reunited.

Wait, was it Barry Hanson? Maybe it was Badge of Honor. Or The Grey Ghost? Those were my favorites. Memory has a way of smearing into a blur, doesn't it?

Anyway, the credits rolled. And then, the words spilled thoughtlessly out of my mouth:

I miss Mom.

I caught myself, but it was too late. He made it clear that discussion of her was off-limits. I looked at him now, my hand clasped over my mouth. I had no idea what was going to happen next. Would he yell? Would he cry, break down sobbing?

Still facing the television, he just lowered his eyes, tipping the whiskey and soda to his mouth.

Me too, he said.

I knew he wanted me to leave it at that, but the thought had been going around and around in my head like a carousel those past two months.

I said, It isn't fair.

He gave me a funny look, then broke it off and turned away with a sigh. As if he knew this day would come. He rose, turned off the TV, sank back down, and took another sip. Always little sips.

Where do you think your mother is now, Harvey?

The answer was obvious. She's with God.

No, he said, gently but firmly. She isn't.

But… Mom always said…

Look, I loved Mom. I loved her lots and lots and lots. But she was wrong. There's no God, Harvey. It's very important for you to understand this. There's no God, no Heaven, no Jesus, and no angels, just as there's no Santa Claus, no Easter Bunny, no Tooth Fairy. There's no Boogeyman, vampires, witches, or werewolves. There's no Devil, and no Hell. You understand? There's no one out there who's gonna save you, just as there're no monsters trying to get you. There's just us.

Justice…?

No, Harvey, he snapped. He closed his eyes, cooled, and said, That's exactly the point. There's none of that either. Not for anyone. Life ain't fair. All there is…

He considered for a moment.

Well. Here. I'll show you.

He reached into his pocket and then pulled something out. I caught a glisten of silver peeking through the cracks between his fingers. He unfolded the fist, and there, in his leathery palm, was a coin. An old Peace Dollar. I reached for it like a talisman, drawing me in. But he pulled away and sealed his hand before I had a chance.

No, no, he said, with a strange edge to those words. This isn't for you. This is your Daddy's good luck charm.

Like Scrooge McDuck's lucky dime?

Dad's stone-face broke into warm chuckles, and he ruffled my hair with that massive paw of his. It wasn't really that big, but to a child of seven, it was like the hand of a giant.

Something like that, he said, smiling. Now, we're gonna play a little game. You like games?

Sure, yeah.

Course you do. Y'take after your old man. Now you pay attention. Y'gotta call it, heads or tails. What's it gonna be?

I said tails. To this day, I don't know why.

Good boy, he said, but his face hardened. As if in resignation. Yeah, good boy. All right. Tails you win, heads you lose.

What do I get if I win?

It's not that kind of game, Harv. You'll see.

He slipped his thumb under the coin, but hesitated. He looked at me seriously, one last time. Making certain that I understood.

It's all just luck, y'see? That's all. Just blind luck.

The coin rang out in a resounding ting as it spun through the air, straight up and curving in an arc before tumbling back down to earth. Within a second's time, it landed flat in his palm with a soft fwap.

Heads.

I lost.

"And what happened then?" Doctor Cross asks, leaning forward on her desk.

I look around, remembering where I am. The office is much darker than when I arrived. A whole hour, and already the session's nearly over. There's a low rumble from not too far off. When did it start raining? I was so absorbed, I hadn't even noticed as the storm rolled in around us.

"Harvey? Then what happened with your father?"

I think about Dad one more time. The warmth of his laugh, the clink of the ice cubes against glass. And those hands. Those great giant's hands, as his fingers closed around the coin, enshrouding its shining brilliance into darkness once more.

"Then he broke my jaw."


	2. The Day Before

Mayor Hamilton Hill towers at the podium, beaming for the cameras and infusing realistic passion into his speechwriter's words. He ticks off my credentials as a final kiss-off to my opponents, who've spent the last few months decrying my "severe" lack of experience.

They say "that kid ADA is only two years past his bar exam." They insist that the only reason I've gotten this far was because I'm the Mayor's golden boy: his "Apollo," as _Gotham World _dubbed me. They declare that ever since this pretty-boy's coup with the Zsasz murder trial, I've been molded into the figurehead for Hill's "bold new face of Gotham City."

But ol' "Hammy" Hill knows how to sell an image, and if that's the image he's cultivating, who better to use than a young, charismatic, handsome, and painfully naïve puppet? If I didn't know any better, I'd think they were all talking about someone else.

But no, that's me. In less than twenty-four hours, if all goes as planned and I do as I'm told, I'll be elected District Attorney, the youngest in Gotham's history. Pull the string and watch me dance.

Hill reaffirms promises of cleaning up the city, as if all we need is a good scrubbing, and ta-daaaa. And of course, the press gobbles it up like baby birds under mommy's vomit. The all-too-few who shoot the tough questions are fed half-truths, twisting everything to a fine, confusing pulp. Even I almost believe him.

That's not to imply that Hill's corrupt. I mean, he is, but no more than any good politician. Sure, he's shaken hands with a mobster or two, but who in Gotham hasn't? And sure, he's made it damn clear that his—now our—war on crime is focused on the street gangs, the prostitutes, the pimps, the low-level pushers, the junkies, the squatters, and the occasional high-profile freak like Zsasz. Not the people who matter. But his pockets are clean, at least. If I didn't know that for sure, Hill would be on my list. Right alongside some others at this table.

"… And partnered with the fine men of the Gotham City Police Department, headed by their esteemed Commissioner, Mr. Gillian B. Loeb, the criminal filth that infest our streets stand not a chance! For we have…"

Loeb: that stout and ruddy man whose air of gentility is about as convincing as his comb-over. Carmine "The Roman" Falcone is a regular dinner guest at his home, a mansion that five police commissioners couldn't afford. Next to him is that bloated toad Rupert Thorne, and his prize crony, Peter Pauling.

"… that bright days are ahead for us all, thanks to the work of Councilman Thorne to revitalize our most deprived neighborhoods. His efforts will bring about a new period of prosperity and…"

Thorne shoots a smarmy glance into the auditorium, out into the lower circles of this celebratory banquet. Past the cluster of reporters who dogged me all the way over here, their questions ranging from the recent senior citizen murders, to the rumors of a "Bat-Man" terrorizing the streets, right down to what it feels like to be named the city's Sexiest Man Alive by _Gothamite_ magazine.

(My response: "I hope I don't have to say this often, but I demand a recount.")

Hill was and is just so damn proud, his investment ready to pay off like crazy. I let him hone me every step of the way, and now that we're under the wire, my victory all but assured, I can't help but wonder how much of the real me is left anymore. No, that's an absurd thought. I know who I am, and if I've had to pretend otherwise, it'll all be worth it. I haven't lost anything of real value by biding my time, and soon it'll all be over.

That's when I realize who Thorne's looking at out there, all gathered at one plumb banquet table in particular, nestled like a box seat in the corner to provide the men with the right balance of privacy and prominence. Oh hell. I expected to see them at Hill's party tonight, but not here. I didn't think they had the gall.

"… And of course, before I blather on any further, heh-heh… I want to particularly acknowledge the leaders of Gotham's business community, for all their philanthropic work over the…"

Yes, those two are in good company: right alongside Norman Madison of Madison Industries, Ferris Boyle of GothCorp, Roland Daggett of Daggett Pharmaceuticals, and that Sionis creep from Janus Cosmetics. And they all differ to the two men sitting at opposite ends of the same table. That's when the truth smacks me in the face. That's when I realize why they're here.

"... not to mention their generous contributions to our Golden Boy's campaign, and all their support for..."

On the left flank sits Carmine Falcone, CEO of Falcone Imports. The one on the right doesn't even bother with a legitimate front or title. Everyone that matters knows him. That's the man himself. That's Vincent Moroni.

Normally, you'd never see a table shared by "the Boss" and "the Roman," as they're known to only a handful of people. But apparently, this night is enough to foster temporary kinship between two generations of bad blood. They've come together to pay their respects, and why not? I'm their investment too.

The speech in my head starts to fade as the speech in my hand starts to crumble. I can't do this. But I can't afford not to.

Think about Gilda. One way or another, think about Gilda…

"… And so it gives me great pleasure to introduce to you the man who will finally clean up Gotham City… your new District Attorney, Harvey Dent! Get up here, 'Apollo!'"

Oh Christ. I fight back the wince, standing to the roar of applause and the cracks of flashbulbs. I wave and smile, shaking his hand, "Aw, c'mere, you…" and then I assume the podium. The applause dies.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Mister Mayor, I haven't won yet!" I take a breath and assess the crowd. "Ladies and gentlemen of Gotham City, I speak to you now not as a lawyer, and certainly not as a god…"—they chuckle—"but as one of you. Now, I know you've all heard that line before. But I don't say that like some huckster politician might…" … careful, keep it light… "Er, no offense, Mister Mayor."

He gives a good-sport belly laugh, but his eyebrows knit. He wants me to it already. Just look down and read the words on the paper. A good politician never, ever speaks his mind.

I take another breath, this one more shallow than the last. I look up from the paper, and I never look down again.

"I think it's only fair that you know something about the man you'll be voting for tomorrow. The fact is… I'm from the East End. Born and raised."

A few murmurs rumble through the hall. Like wax on a candle, the smile on Hill's face melts and hardens.

"Many of you may not know that, since it wasn't in any of the press releases. But it's true. I don't have to remind you of the East End's reputation."

I let that hang for a second, hoping I'm not hanging myself.

"So I didn't learn about crime in some law school textbook. I learned about it on the streets. Like many of you, I witnessed it on a daily basis. And like many of you, I felt powerless to the point of resignation. For awhile, I believed that cruelty, theft, corruption, and murder was all just the way of life. 'That's just Gotham,' we used to say. That's just Gotham."

Damn it, this is getting too grim. Is there a joke I can crack? Some way to lighten it up again? No, no, it's too late. Too late. Just press on.

"Those who resign themselves to that powerlessness often do so by picking up a bottle, a needle, or a pipe. But if don't want to feel powerless, then you pick up a switchblade, a knife, or a gun. And then you find others with switchblades, or knives, or guns, because there's safety in numbers. There's protection in becoming a part of something bigger than you are, especially when you think it's the winning side. The truth is, I almost gave into that temptation myself."

Loeb rolls his eyes. From the color of Thorne's face, he looks ready to sweep in for damage control, but Hill has his hand on the Councilman's slumped shoulder. If anyone has to end me, it'll be the man who made me.

"But just because I understand the criminals does not mean that I condone their choices. Because crime is a choice, and the overwhelming majority of Gothamites, even in the toughest neighborhoods, are strong enough to choose otherwise. And for their strength, they must suffer at the hands of the criminals. It's not right. And it's not fair. Me, I was lucky. Unlike most of those good people, I was able to get out of my situation. I too found my salvation in something bigger than myself, in devoting my work to a common goal... of law and order."

These words I direct at that table in the back, offering a bit to every man there. They listen with stony frowns. All save for Moroni. He smiles. Because he gets it. It's a game. It's all a game.

"To some, that's an antiquated notion, even naïve. Every day, for years on end, we've seen the law mocked, spit upon, perverted, corrupted, or just plain ignored. How can anyone believe in something so flawed, something so often exploited? I'll tell you how: because of that goal. That common goal of fairness."

Take a beat.

"Equality."

Take a beat.

"And justice."

I glance at Hill, who's seems to be thawing. He nods once. I nod back, then continue.

"The law can't erase crime, or undo catastrophes, or bring back the dead. But there is a small part of our lives where we actually do have power, and the law can make that little part more just. We devise rules for our dealings with one another that fairly weigh the rights and needs of everyone. I believe in the law because it reflects the best vision of ourselves."

I realize that I'm no longer directing these words to the wealthy who bought tickets to be at this luncheon, nor the select table of men off in the corner, nor my colleagues flanked on either side. I'm not even addressing the press anymore. Just their cameras. I pray that my true audience, the people I must reach, are watching right now.

"Maybe you don't. Or maybe you did, but lost your faith long ago. Or maybe you do, but still feel too scared, too helpless, to do anything about it. The criminals of Gotham want you to stay that way, because they think this city is theirs. But it's not. This city no more belongs to them than a body belongs to a tumor. This city belongs to you, the people of Gotham."

I risk taking a pause, and am repaid with applause. Scattered, but enthusiastic. It's enough to fuel the rest of my way.

"The truth is, you people are stronger than you know. Because crime is easy. Crime is the coward's way out. But to carve out a life of honesty, of hard work, of integrity… _that_ is true courage. And what the criminals don't want you to realize is that you are the majority. They live in fear of the day when you've finally had enough. Because I have. Ladies and gentlemen, I have had my fill."

More applause, bigger than the last. Keep it going.

"That is why, as your District Attorney, I will do everything in my power to bring justice to these criminals. My record speaks for itself, so you can be certain my indictments will stick."

"But there's only so much that one person-even an elected official-can accomplish. One person alone is no match for the criminals. But if you all stand as one, if you pool your collective strength and courage together, then they'll be no match for you!"

"You don't have to join the police force, or run for public office, or put even on a costume. All you have to do is look the criminals in the face and say, 'No more! You hear me? No! More!'"

I fight every urge to direct those words to Falcone and Moroni. The former listens with cool intent, while the latter's grin has only blossomed. He's loving every second.

"They'll try to convince you that you don't have the guts. They'd have you believe that you're as cowardly and self-serving as they are. But you know better. Because in the face of everything, you've chosen to rise above crime. You've chosen to be brave. And that's why I'm proud to serve you, Gotham. Because I believe in you. I believe in Gotham City!"

That did it. The applause is matched in intensity only by the camera flashes, deafening and blinding all at once. Hill glows like an arclight, his relief coupled with the pride of a teacher toward his proudest pupil.

I can leave it all right here, and I'll be the toast of the press and society alike. Even Thorne and Loeb seem pleased as punch, having the rabble so thoroughly roused and distracted. And the men at the table offer their own warmly controlled applause, confident that it's going to be business as usual from now on. The "Boss" himself gives me a salute, congratulating a player who's done so well in a rigged game.

As Hill stands to relieve me from the podium, I lean into the microphone one last time.

"You have my word, Gotham: as of tomorrow, I will dedicate my career to trying and convicting the criminals who've plagued this city for too long. The real criminals."

As the applause roars anew, I extend my arm into a firm bolt all the way out to my fingertip. Before Hill or anyone else can stop me, I aim into the crowd, finding my target. And all of a sudden, I'm the only one smiling.

"Starting with you, Moroni."


	3. Gilda

**_A/N:_**_ For those who don't know, Gilda is not an OC but Harvey's canon love interest from the comics, dating back to his very first appearance in 1942. The version I drew from when I initially set out to write her was not the one from "Batman: The Long Halloween," but rather the character as she was depicted throughout the fifty-five years before that story was published. However, as my story evolved over its numerous drafts, so did she, taking on a whole new life of her own. _

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><p>With just one hour left to prepare for my benefit banquet—which will probably be more like my funeral after the stunt I just pulled in front of Gotham's entire television watching populace, and its political elite—I unlock the door to my house and wonder for the hundredth time how I'll be able to face her. She'll chew me out, and she'll be right to do it. With one conscience driven impulse, I've jeopardized everything. Everything I've worked so hard for, everything we've built, everything—<p>

The door swings open, and a woman elegant beyond her years, dressed to the hilt in ballroom finery, all but tackles me with kisses.

"Marry the hell out of me, you great big dope!" she says, planting another one before yanking me inside by the lapels.

"I already did!" I yelp. "You were there!"

"Then do it again!" she beams. Jesus, she's luminescent. Maybe it's the dress, an elegant number too long to quality as a little black dress, accompanied by the long white gloves that cover the arms that cover me. But no, that's not it. It's her. It's always just Gilda.

"You don't think I just pissed away my entire career?"

"Harvey, no!" A thoughtful pause. "Well, maybe." A smile. "I don't care! You showed them the real person they're going to elect. The real Harvey Dent, not some watered-down, kid-tested-Hill-approved edition. Just the real, actual you."

"Oh, you mean the real, actual me that put his foot in it? On live TV? In front of several mobsters?"

"Yes. That one," she grinningly responds without pause. "That speech was the first time in months that you've sounded like yourself, you know that? I was actually starting to miss you."

Miss me? "I've always been here."

"I know, it's just..." she leaves it there. I wonder if I'm not missing something. "Never mind. I'm so proud of you."

"You're the only one who is."

"Oh, well, good thing I'm the only one who matters, then." She smirks. "And really, what's the worst that can happen?"

I almost say, "We get killed?" but that's not going to be an issue. From what I can tell, no one's taking me that seriously. I'm a laughingstock who just shot himself in the foot, not a threat to anyone.

"Worst case scenario? My career is in ruins, all the people I've pissed off get me blacklisted, it rains, there's a plague of locusts and we probably have to fall back on your career."

"Oh." Attempting to perk up, she offers, "Well, maybe one of my sculptures will finally sell? For several thousand dollars?"

"Yeah, exactly. That's why I've got to try to salvage this disaster at the banquet." I break away from her, unbuttoning my shirt as I head into the bedroom. "Where's the damn penguin suit? I've still got an hour to compose myself and-"

"Um, about that banquet..." Gilda utters from the hallway.

Halfway into my trousers, I freeze. Leaning out the door, I find my answer in her sheepish smile, but I ask anyway.

"Cancelled?"

"Hill called an hour ago. Or rather, his aide called. Basically, he wants nothing to do with you for the time being."

I fall backwards onto the bed, my pants hanging down around my ankles. "He couldn't even tell me himself. He had to have little Artie Reeves do his dirty work."

"He said hi, by the way," she adds, leaning by the doorway, phone in her gloved hand. "So. Pizza?"

"I think I've lost my appetite." I stare upward at the popcorn ceiling, one of the many renovations we'll need to perform on this place. So many things that need to be done before this house can feel like home. It's made all the more jarring by how extravagant she looks, not that I'm complaining, as she sets the phone aside and closes the distance between the doorway and me. Tuxedo pants forgotten, for the first time since I got back, I actually look at her. _Really_ look at her.

I'm honestly not used to seeing her like this: gentle, sloping curves in black satin and chestnut curls spilling from the loose bun at the nape of her neck—overalls caked with clay, hair hastily swept behind a bandana to keep it out of the way; _that_ I'm used to. But this...this is different.

Not for the first time, I wonder how many other facets I've overlooked that she'll eventually surprise me with. Even now, I catch another detail I missed on first glance: the dress is subtly patterned with tiny black velvet roses, an understated contrast to the black satin. I might have noticed a little quicker if not for the stark white satin gloves. Then again, maybe I wouldn't have. _Probably_ wouldn't have.

"Wait. Why are you still dressed up if you knew the party was cancelled?"

"After I spent four hours of hard work to look this way?" she demurs, sauntering towards my bare legs. "It wasn't for _the_ benefit, boy. It was for _your_ benefit."

"Gilda, I'm really not sure—_four hours?—_I mean, now's not the time to..." She climbs onto the bed, pushing the tailored dress to its limits as she straddles me. "Okay, overruled."

I suddenly remember the surprise I've had hidden away for the past week and wonder if now's the time to spring it on her, since we're staying in anyway...

Then again, as she leans toward me, those eyes full of intent, I wonder if maybe I just don't give a damn...

And that's when the phone rings.

She rolls off with a throaty, "Daaaaamn!" gracelessly flopping on the bed in defeat. She sulks there as the phone rings a second time. With a disappointed huff, she arises and grumbles, "Go on, answer it. I'll go look for the pizza delivery menu."

"Love you," I say, to which she scoffs in frustration, dismissively flapping one hand in my general direction as she heads out. The ring cuts off as I lift the receiver, and I'm suddenly filled with sickening anticipation of whoever's on the other end of the line. Readying myself for a personal chewing-out from Mayor Hill, I instead hear a ghost from my past. The only time I've heard this voice in recent memory is on TV or news radio. But not in person. Not for what seems like a lifetime.

"Harvey! Buddy! Long time no anything! Where're you at?"

"I'm... home. Which you should know, since you apparently somehow have my number...?"

"Home? But your benefit is already in full swing! Everyone's been asking about you!"

"Wait, what? What benefit? The banquet was cancelled."

"Yeah, I heard. So I decided to throw my own! I just had an hour's notice, so I could only get a few hundred of my closest friends. Hope that's enough!"

"It... I... you..."

"Your ride should be arriving right about now to bring you to the mansion. The driver may need directions. I assume you still know the way up here, right? Swell! See you soon!"

Before I can even sputter, he hangs up. And before I can tell Gilda, I hear her from the living room, "Uh... Harv? Why is there a stretch Rolls in our driveway? I mean...I _think _it's a Rolls. Do they even _make_ those?"

"Bruce Wayne," is all I can muster by way of an answer. "Just... Bruce Wayne."

She gawks. "The millionaire? The tabloid fixture? You're friends?"

"I guess you could say that." Although I'm not sure that'd be the truth. "He's certainly under the impression we're friends. He's throwing me a benefit. Now. As we speak."

Her brow knits for a second before she gives a one shouldered shrug. "Well, much as it pains me to say so, put on your pants."

"Whoa, we're not actually going."

"Harvey, you need help."

"I thought that's what my shrink was for."

"Be serious." She says it so rarely that I know she means business. "He's offering you a hand when you need it the most. So what if he's an airheaded playboy? Support is support."

It's so much more than that, but I don't know how to explain it to her. So I comply, throwing on the tux, putting all the parts in the right places.

Glancing out at the waiting limo while I dress, she marvels, "You know, for a gutter press darling, he really goes all out, doesn't he?"

"He never did before," I say, and that's what gets me. Why has Bruce cobbled together this scenario? If I were paranoid, I'd suspect a trap. Strange enough he should return to town out of nowhere, but this, with our history...?

"You should be savoring this, you know," she says, watching as I dutifully slip on the suit jacket. "After tomorrow, the real work begins."

That's true. The real work, either looking for a new job after pissing away the last one, or working at the office I've dreamt of having for years. Facing off against enemies, both old and very new.

I pause the tux assembly, staring at the man in the mirror, and the woman behind him. She looks at me, our eyes meeting in the glass.

"Today… today really happened, didn't it? I called out Vincent Moroni in front of the whole city, didn't I?"

With full understanding, she nods. "Yeah."

"That was _really_ stupid."

"Yes, Harvey. Yes, it was."

I sigh. One way or another, our lives as we knew them are gone forever.

"Everything's changed," I say.

She takes my hand, and I can feel her wedding ring within the glove. "Not everything."

I don't deserve her. How I ever got so lucky to find her, I'll never know. And more than ever, a party is the last place I want to be.

"We should be staying in tonight. We won't have many other chances starting tomorrow."

"It'll be all right, whether you win or not." When she says that, I actually believe her. "But if you _do_ win the election," she adds, with consternation, "try not to spend all of your time with that Justice hussy, or I'll have to take her down a peg. After all, a blind woman can't appreciate a god of light."

"Not you too."

"Oh, you love it, you closeted narcissist," she giggles, which become cackles as I struggle with the bow tie. "Need some help, Mister Bond?"

"Hell with it, I'll worry about it on the drive." I give myself one last look in the mirror. A couple mahogany stragglers dangle over my forehead, so I go for the comb in my study, maneuvering past towers of unpacked law books and documents. With one last sweep of the comb—everything's in place, good—I make sure I'm not forgetting anything. "Right, now, once I lock up the house..."

"You _can_ call it 'home,' you know."

"I will once I believe it," I say, patting my pockets, which are empty. I glance to the kitchen counter, but still nothing. Where the hell...?

Handing me the house keys, she asks, "You don't really miss the cloister, do you?"

The cloister: the tiny cell I moved into after I left Dad. Hard to believe that Gilda and I survived three years in that cramped, stuffy, box-stacked, paper-strewn hellhole of a flat.

I snatch the keys from her hand and shrug. "It was home."

"Well, the suburbs can be home too."

I open the door, and the air outside is cool in an artificial, recirculated way. This is the furthest I've ever been outside of the city in my life, and I'm living here now.

"All I've ever known about the suburbs was from sitcoms," I say, flipping the locks. "I'm not cut out to be the dad from _Love That Baby_."

"Or Ward Cleaver?"

A shudder of old embarrassment. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Nope!" she says, punctuating her response with a small bounce. Turning to the Rolls in all its glory, the chauffeur waiting oh-so-patiently for us, she says, "Well, I _was_ looking forward to properly christening the house tonight, but if Bruce Wayne is going to twist my arm..."

I reach for the limo's door to—oops, that's right, let the chauffeur take care of it_, _la-dee-dah—and let her slide in first. It's a whole lot of vehicle for just us (for justice), but... wait. Damn, I almost forgot!

"Don't go yet," I tell the driver, and then to her: "Wait here. I've got to get something."

"Oh god, what do you have planned?"

"Don't worry, it's awful, I swear!" I run inside, the keys jangling in my hand. I undo the locks, dash into the bedroom, head to the closet, reach for the top shelf, pull down the box with "Legal documents S-Su" written in marker on the side, grab the heavy object by the spout with one hand, support it by the bottom with the other, run into the kitchen, put the surprise under my arm, grab two glasses, check my hair, run outside, and then lock the house back up through some miracle of dexterity. I turn to Gilda, who looks at me with bewilderment, which turns to shock when she sees the green bottle I'm lugging her way.

I thank the driver for opening the door, get in, and hand her the bottle as she sputters for the right words. I'm frankly amazed that she didn't find it already.

"Harvey!" she exclaims, delight mixed with genuine surprise as the door slams shut behind me. "You actually got this?"

"Not for me," I say, handing her a glass. "I was thinking of saving this for after my victory party, but since that may not happen..."

She hesitates, sizing me up. "Are you sure about this?"

"Well, I don't want to have to carry you into Wayne Manor. Bruce wouldn't forgive being upstaged in the tabloids."

She's nice enough to smile, then scans the label without interest. My first-ever visit to a liquor store was itself a discomforting experience, filled with unhappy men and sour, indeterminate odors. The clerk assured me this was some pretty high-end bubbly. For the price, it'd better be.

"Tell you what," she negotiates, "Let's hold off for now. Save it for a really special occasion."

"What's more special than tonight?" I aim for irony, but somehow it comes out as sincerity. Even in the midst of imminent disaster, she makes everything okay.

In reply, her warm smile gives rise to a dozen silent ambitions. "It'll come to us. I'm counting on it."

Good answer. With relief, I say, "And I'll second that."

"Now, where's that tie?" she asks, her hand slipping into my left pocket and fumbling around for effect. "Nope, not in there, maybe the other one...?"

"You're as subtle as a cinderblock," I say, pulling it out of the front corner pocket. She reaches for it, and I protest, "I can do it myself," but it's for naught.

Resigning myself, I let her drape the tie around my neck, watching her eyes focused on her work, glancing up to me and down again to finish the job. With satisfaction, she tugs on the bow as if putting the finishing touch on a Christmas present.

"There we go," she says, looking me over, taking me all in. With her hand to my cheek, she says with adoration, "My handsome Apollo."

"Jesus, for the last time, no more of-"

She shuts me up. She's so good at that. Fingers cradling my cheek, she moves in, slowly but deliberately. Her tongue slips against mine for the briefest, tantalizing moment, before she breaks away.

"What was that for?"

With a crafty smile, she says, "I need a reason?"

After a moment's held hesitation, I respond with a touch less grace and deliberation. Her lipsticked-lips stick ever so slightly against mine, but never once smear nor smudge, not even as our kisses intensify. Silken hands slip inside the tux jacket and caress my chest through white cotton. I peck her cheek once, twice, enticing without mussing her make-up, before moving to give her earlobe a single nibble, which never fails to elicit a tiny gasp.

Hushed between heaving breaths, she asks, "It's a...long drive...to Wayne Manor from here, isn't it?"

"Not long enough," I respond, before calling to the chauffeur, "Driver? Driver! You mind getting lost in the city for a bit, if you know what...?"

I can see his eyes roll in the rearview mirror. "Yeah, yeah," he wearily replies, the gray partition rolling up with an electric hum. "I do drive a limo, y'know, 'Mister Apollo.'"

Gilda fixes her smug gaze on me, eyebrow cocked.

"Not one word," I warn, placing my finger on her soft mouth. Her lips part and she gently bites down on the finger, sending little shockwaves through my system. My hand runs over the curves of her body, patterns of black roses appearing and vanishing between glances.

"Why, Mister District Attorney," she says, tugging on the bow and undoing all her hard work, "whatever would your mistress say if she could see us now?"

I pull her closer. "Just another reason I'm glad she's blind."


	4. Bruce: Past and Present

I can't believe I'm going to see Wayne Manor again. But then, I can hardly believe I ever saw it in the first place.

It seems unreal that a punk kid like me could ever have been granted access to this castle, but that's a testament to the goodness of Martha Kane. You'd think that after she married the prestigious Dr. Wayne, she would have given no thought to her college friend Alice Helfer, who had married my less-than-prestigious father. But Mrs. Wayne never forgot a friend, especially not one who had fallen as ill as Mom.

For a brief period when I was five or six, Mom would bring me along with her on her visits to Wayne Manor, escaping into another world far, far away from Dad. Those visits healed us emotionally and psychologically, even though Dr. Wayne couldn't have healed her physically. She'd spend a half hour with him, then two hours over lunch with Martha, while I'd explore the mansion with Bruce, one year my junior. We weren't really best friends, but we were kids together, if that makes any sense. Playmates who didn't have anyone else to play with. Even after Mom died, the Waynes made it a point to have me visit for both my sake and Bruce's, to try and give us some semblance of a normal childhood. That dream died shortly thereafter, right alongside his parents.

After that, we drifted apart. I was stuck with Dad, while Bruce went further inside himself. Years crawled by, many years of pain and anger and loneliness so profound that I had honestly forgotten how to live any other way. It wasn't until meeting with yet _another_ therapist that I realized just how much I missed Bruce, but our paths seemed unlikely to ever cross again.

After finally escaping Dad, I went to study pre-law at Hudson U, while Bruce was bouncing from one Ivy League school to the next, always spending more time sulking in his mansion than at classes. By my sophomore summer, I landed a clerk position at the DA's office, just in time for the trial of the decade.

I was grateful that Bruce gave me a chance to explain, to try and get him to understand why we were offering Joseph Chilton—"Joey Chill," the Iceman himself—a commuted sentence in return for his testimony. Bruce didn't see things that way, a position he made abundantly clear when I returned to the manor for the first time in years.

"He was rotting in Blackgate," Bruce said, hunched over at the table. The kitchen was one of the only places in all of Wayne Manor where the furniture wasn't draped in sheets. "He should have stayed there."

As I sipped tea so fine that it could only have been prepared by an Englishman, I found myself nostalgic for Alfred's oatmeal cookies. Nothing I'd had since could compare. They probably wouldn't even taste as good as I'd remembered if I had them again. Another relic of childhood, lost in the past.

I said, "Yes, he should. But please Bruce, you need to understand what he's offering. The things he learned being Vincent Moroni's cellmate…"

"Do you think it matters? Even if you put Moroni away, there will always be someone else to take his place."

"That doesn't mean that Moroni shouldn't pay for his crimes," I said, knowing that he wouldn't care. "You don't know what it's like out there, Bruce. The mob doesn't just control rackets and bump each other off anymore. They're in the business of corruption, and it's the only business that's booming in this economy. They churn out new Joe Chills every day."

"Only one Joe Chill killed my parents," Bruce said.

"Your parents dedicated their lives to fighting the kind of scum that—"

His look shut me down in an instant. Too far. I clamped down with a sigh, inhaling to catch another ghost of cinnamon and brown sugar seemingly infused in these walls.

"So you won't be coming to the hearing."

"No, I'll come," he said, which surprised me. I bowed my head and nodded solemnly, not sure if I was thanking him or apologizing. When I looked back up, his blue eyes held mine with intensity. With cold resignation, he said, "It's not fair."

_Life ain't fair_, a voice echoed from long ago, but I didn't believe that. I couldn't.

"It will be," I swore to him. There was fairness, there had to be. Even if we had to make it ourselves.

"I know," he said, turning his back to me. "One way or another."

Something about the way he said it should have warned me about what would come next. But I didn't listen. I didn't want to believe it.

Not that it mattered once Chill was shot on the courthouse steps. A sniper's bullet punched through his chest, and within seconds, he was drowning in his own blood. The DA uttered a curse with weary familiarity. The press swarmed around the dying man as if they'd been rehearsing for the moment. I felt like the only one who was naïve enough to think that this would have gone any differently.

I tried to take comfort in the thought that this might finally give Bruce some peace. Then I saw his eyes burning with cold fury, staring at the pandemonium around Chill, and I knew. Whatever he wanted, this would never be enough.

I didn't see Bruce's immediate reaction to the news that Chill survived, barely pulling through on the operating table. The DA hoped that he would be vindictive enough to still testify against Moroni. It was nice to hope, even if it came to nothing. But at least when Chill was sent back to Blackgate with no chance at parole, I felt like some justice was done.

That's what I thought, anyway. But I wouldn't know the full story for two more weeks, when I saw Bruce one last time, after he'd learned the full extent of my role in Chill's appeal. Even now, whenever I think of Bruce, I don't think of the fleetingly happy child I knew, or the boozy exploits of the millionaire playboy you read about in the gossip rags. I think of that afternoon, the meltdown that I thought destroyed whatever friendship we had, and the endless questions of how much I was to blame for the whole disaster.

* * *

><p>So why did he offer to host this party? Why would he even want to see me again? If the tabloids are to be believed, perhaps this Bruce is a pod person. But at least, as the door opens before us, I realize that some of the best people never change.<p>

` "Welcome back, Mr. Dent," Alfred says, warmly reserved as always. "The festivities—such as they are—are well underway."

"Alfred, you haven't aged a day."

"The gray hairs Master Bruce has given me in the intervening years beg to differ, sir," he says. "May I take your coat?"

Handing the wool garment over, I turn to Gilda for introductions, only to realize I've forgotten the butler's last name. Far as I knew, he never had one. "Gilda, it's my great pleasure to introduce you to Alfred."

He takes her hand as only a most proper gentleman could.

"How do you do, Mrs. Dent," he says, and I almost correct him. It's still bizarre to think of her with my name.

She smirks and asks him, "What's it all about, Alfie?"

He looks puzzled. "I beg your pardon, madam?"

"Erm..." She blushes and ducks her head with embarrassment. "Never mind."

His eyebrows rise briefly, but he shrugs it off. "This way, please."

And then, he leads us into a realm I haven't seen for eight years.

Usually when we revisit old childhood haunts, we're amazed by how small they seem to us now. Not here. Wayne Manor is every bit as expansive, more like a cathedral than a playboy's mansion. These halls echo with memories much older than my own.

Alfred escorts us into the ballroom, grounding me in the present. The cream of Gotham greets me with champagne, wine, all manner of intoxication, and polite applause. I take in the room, from the grand dual staircase to the fully stocked bar and...bandstand? He hired a band? No, he hired _two_ bands?He did. Oh god. On one side of the massive room, a string quartet plays something snooty; while on the other, a pianist and bass player meander their way through an instrumental version of "Something's Gotta Give."

Through the clenched teeth of a forced grin, Gilda utters from beside me, "Kill me now, honey."

A grinning blonde in the crowd excitedly waves at me, gesturing to one of my corny campaign slogan buttons affixed to her tangerine and salmon striped cocktail dress and I reluctantly wave back. I recognize her as last year's Miss Gotham, though now she looks like a walking piece of Laffy Taffy.

"Only if you kill me first," I say.

"You're not big on logistics, are you?"

"I think that should be obvious by now."

People gradually start drifting over to us to socialize, but I recognize few faces, and none from the press banquet. These aren't the movers and shakers, the manipulators and the dealers. These are the bored and the idle, looking for whatever shiny object catches their fleeting attention next. These are Bruce's people, but they were never the people of his parents. But where is he? He teases me for not being at a secret party when he's not even here himself?

I wade through the crowd, only to catch the sea's attention. Putting on my best politician face, I mingle with the likes of Veronica Vreeland and J. Devlin Davenport, and in the process I somehow lose Gilda in the mass of affluence. The socialites grin and chat and joke with me as if they're actually here for my benefit and not the free champagne. For nearly an hour I get passed around from old money to new money to just plain money, suffocating in the throng by the time I'm accosted by a pompous boob by the name of Pierce Chapmen.

"If you ask me," he says in a Locust Valley Lockjaw accent, "Mayor Hill is over the."

"Over the...what?"

"_Hill,_ dear boy." He slaps me on the back with a nasal chortle.

I've got to get the hell out of here.

I eyeball the wide-open courtyard as my salvation and then scan the cluster of faces, searching for my wife. I finally find her cornered by Henry Claridge, a private curator of supposed renown. He leans in towards her, one hand braced against the wall, the other occasionally trailing up her bare arm and suddenly, I'm ready to shove that stupid little toupee down his throat. But as I approach, she catches my eye, gives me an 'I've got this' wink, and waves me off.

She's dealt with her fair share of Claridges over the years, and she can handle this one too. I have to remind myself of that as I retreat into the fresh air outside. Claridge is just another art-prick, and maybe he's more interested in her work than getting in her pants. This is important, especially since she just quit her Gallery job last week. Being surrounded by the artwork of others left her no energy to create her own, but she was reluctant to quit just in case something went wrong.

But how could it? After all, the election was a lock.

Jesus, I hadn't even considered that I might have burned her bridges as well as my own. Damn it. No. I don't want to think about that. Not here, not in the lush courtyard where I spent some of the best moments of my life.

It's been so long that I'd almost forgotten that those memories were real, that I really did use to come here and run wild with the boy prince, playing tag, cops and robbers and the Gray Ghost. I'll never understand how two boys from both ends of Gotham's class spectrum could bond so easily.

For a while, anyway. Until _that_ night.

"You've got some nerve, showing up here after what you've taken from me," comes a voice from behind.

And here we go. I turn, and god, I forgot how tall he is.

"The people have spoken," I say. "Sorry you had to settle for second place."

"I'm still 'Gotham's Sexiest Bachelor.'" He emphasizes the last word, faux pride mingled with faux bitterness. "So I might as well be number one."

I feel like we should drop this charade and just… I don't know, hug already, or something. Start talking, catching up, like the friends we're supposed to be, but there's something awkward, almost fake, about our interaction, under the facade of surface familiarity.

"Congrats about… Gilda, isn't it?" He raises his glass in salute. "You two almost make it look worth trying."

"Almost. But not enough for you, Bruce?"

He plays coy, but seems intrigued, like an artist anxious for a fan's feedback. "Don't believe the tabloids, Harv. They love to blow things out of proportion."

"So you didn't purchase an entire shopping mall for a pair of supermodels?"

"God, no!" He almost looks insulted by the absurdity of such a suggestion. "It was just a couple of the shops themselves. With everything those D'Aramis twins wanted to buy, it just seemed more sensible to cut out the middleman."

He grins, still swirling his drink, but never taking a sip. I keep waiting for him to wink, to let me in on the joke.

"What?" he asks, looking upward. Faux innocence. Faux everything. "Is my hair mussed?"

"We thought you were dead, Bruce."

"I didn't think anybody would notice I was gone," he says, with more honesty than I think he wants to let on.

"Well, I did. Considering how we parted ways, how could I not?" I ask. "And look, don't get me wrong, I get why you had to do it. Gilda did the globetrotting thing for a few years, and it was exactly what she needed. With everything that happened, you probably did the right thing, but-"

"You should try it. It'd be good to find yourself."

"Is that what you did?" And is this what you found?

Slapping me on the back, he uses the snifter to punctuate his words.

"I just learned that life is too short to waste being a wet blanket. Hell, you remember what I was like. Don't tell me you miss that old grouch."

Why are we dancing around the elephant in the room? Should I apologize? Should he? Or should we just keep dancing?

"You had every reason to be angry."

"Yes. But not at you." He waits, but I can't bring myself to make the move. "C'mon, Harv. I thought you'd be happy. I'm finally me again, just like in the old days."

"I remember that kid, Bruce. You aren't him. You can never be him again."

"So consider this the new and improved model. Bruce Wayne, two-point-oh!"

There's just no point. With a sigh, I abandon the line of questioning. Time to cut my losses and dive back inside, but Bruce catches me.

"That was some speech today, by the way. You didn't really mean it, did you?"

"You know me, Bruce," I say, just as I thought I knew him. "What do you think?"

"I think you should pray they don't know you like I do," he says, eyebrow cocked. "You really had them fooled with that puppet act of yours, for the most part. You could have kept at it, you know. Kept biding your time. At least until _after_ you won the election."

"If you think I screwed up, Bruce, then just say it."

He holds up his hands, all peacemaker.

"I just want to make sure you know what you're doing. It's a good thing everyone thinks you're a joke. You should use that against them before they wise up."

"I have a plan," I say, thinking about tomorrow. No matter what happens, I'll still be an assistant district attorney long enough to make my move against Moroni's master of protection rackets, Tony Zucco. I've already secured testimony from a rare honest cop that will put Zucco away for life. That'll send a message to all the right people.

"You need more than a plan, Harv. You need friends."

"That's what the speech was for," and I'm amazed at my candor. "I'm hoping that the good guys just needed someone to speak up for them."

"Even if it means upsetting some very powerful people. I notice that Hill and Thorne didn't accept the invitation to support their local ADA. I'm wounded."

"Hell with 'em," I say, and god, it feels good to say that. To let the sweet bitterness flow. "I'm sick of pretending to be something I'm not. I can't play the fool, Bruce, not like…"

I stop myself. But he smiles anyway.

"Like me?"

The picture doesn't come into place, but the pieces move closer together. Now I'm smiling too.

"C'mon, let's go back inside," he says. "No point standing out here. And I've got plenty more wonderful rich and useless friends for you to meet."

"I think I'd rather be alone out here than alone in there."

"But you're not alone, Harv," His heavy hand on my shoulder, he says, "I'm here, for whatever you need. You've got my word. And if the election doesn't go...favorably, hey, you could always be my personal attorney. Lucius says with all the trouble I get into, I need a good one."

"Bruce, I don't think-"

"Bruuuuucie!" a nasal falsetto coos from within the mansion. "I can't find my panties! I think I left them on the pooooool table!"

"Be with you in a minute, Trixi," he calls back. Turning to me, he says, "It's Trixi with an 'i.' _Adorable. _Sorry, Harvey, but it's bad form to keep a lady waiting."

"Does she qualify as one?"

"Only where it counts," he laughs, slapping me on the shoulder. As his fingers slip away, I take his arm, grabbing hold of as if he were an excited Labrador. He stops, looks at me, as if already knowing.

"Bruce… I'm sorry."

And with his first genuine expression tonight, he smiles and says, "Don't be, Harv. I'm the one who's sorry."

"Maybe you were right."

"No. No, I wasn't. You only did what you thought was right. And you _were_ right. Never doubt that."

I don't. But hearing it from him, a wound open for eight years finally heals over in a wash of gratitude. Calling from within the mansion, he shouts, "And hey, if it's any consolation, my hand hurt like hell!"

I shout back, "Not as much as my face!"

And then he's gone.

Just like that, we're okay? Eight years ago, I wouldn't have believed it could be this easy, let alone possible.

* * *

><p>I don't know how long he'd been sitting outside of my dorm, waiting for me to leave for class. Maybe he'd been there an hour. Maybe he sat there all night. But once I left, already running late for Professor Rexford's brutal Pre-Law 201, I found myself thrown into the azaleas outside the building.<p>

I almost didn't even recognize my assailant. He hadn't shaved in days. He shared the desperate look of men who huddled with the homeless in Tent City, or squatted in slums down in the Alleytown.

"… Bruce? Oh, Bruce…" I pulled myself out, the twigs scraping against my skin, snagging in my coat. "Look, if this is about Chill, I know you're angry, but..."

He snarled, "You don't know the half of it."

"What do you want me to say?" I reasoned from my knees, not trying to stand just yet. "Look, it sucks, it's unfair, I know. But try to remember that you've still got your own justice. Chilton's going to rot in Blackgate for life. The DA made sure of that."

A bitter confirmation filling his eyes, he scoffed, "Now that's funny. You really believe that. You don't even have a clue."

"What—"

"I asked around. Moroni was so grateful to Chill for not testifying, he made him his personal representative in Blackgate. Smuggling, information, cash, men... Chill's in charge of it all. That creep is living like a king, better off now than he was on the outside, and it's your fault!"

Oh. Those words. The three words that cut straight to the heart of everything I fear. I didn't even notice my hands starting to shake.

"Even if that's true, it… it wasn't my fault, Bruce. I'm just a clerk. The DA, the ADA, they're the ones who—"

"Don't you dare!" he shouted. "It was you! You're the one who came up with the bright idea use Vincent Moroni's precious cellmate as a bargaining chip! You gambled with the killer of my parents!"

How… how could he have known…? But no, it wasn't like that. I was working with the ADA assigned to fight Chill's appeal. His sentence could have actually been overturned, too. All on a technicality, always the technicalities. I saw a chance to take down a bigger monster. I talked to the ADA, who talked to the DA, who talked to Chill. Everyone thought it was a good idea. Everyone.

"I… I just wanted to see justice done."

"All you cared about was making a name for yourself at the DA's office."

... What? I mean, sure, yes, they were impressed by my thinking. Yes, they personally appointed me to work in the Moroni trial. Yes, I was proud, more proud of anything I'd ever done with my life. But it wasn't… I wasn't…

"That's not true," I said, the sweat starting to bead on my forehead. I couldn't even feel that it was coming. It was all starting again. "It's not. Bruce, you know me."

"Yes, I do. I know why you got into law. I know what you're escaping from. I know that you're so ambitious, so obsessed, that you'd sell out your own mother if it meant getting ahead. Just like you sold me out. Me and my parents."

I tried and failed to ignore that low blow. A breeze carried the stale stench of his breath over to me. I don't know if he'd ever been drunk before. I tried to tell myself that this wasn't really Bruce, that this was just a twisted doppelganger, perverted by booze and rage. I knew this, and I held fast to that logic, struggling to maintain control.

"I'm not just doing this for myself. I'm doing it for people like your parents. They believed in Gotham City when no one else would."

"If they saw this city for what it was, maybe they'd still be alive."

"You don't… you don't mean that," I said, nearly pleaded, as my heart pounded in my ears, harder, faster, louder, "Jesus, Bruce, you knew why we had to do it! You understood! That's why you were there! You were with me that day because you wanted to see that justice was served!"

"Yes, I did," he said, reaching into his pocket. And even then, I didn't want to believe it, that he couldn't have it in him. But there it was. A silver .22, almost like the one Joe Chill used. A pitiful weapon. A coward's weapon. "And now even that's been taken from me. All because of you."

Only the feeling of my fingernails digging into my own palms made me realize that my hands were white fists. And Bruce knew it. He saw the sweat rolling down my face, my body shivering and tense, my lips curling to bear teeth, without understanding the full extent of what he was seeing. Or maybe he did. If he knew about Chill, maybe he also knew my own history, everything I fought and hoped I'd finally overcome. Maybe he knew exactly what he was doing when he said, "You're no better than your father."

At that moment, it didn't matter what he knew. Nothing mattered. Nothing but the burning desire to grant his every wish for obliteration.

"Well?" he shouted, holding his arms outstretched, presenting himself to me on a platter. The gun dangled from his finger, the handle swinging in the air with impotence. "Go on! Do it!"

How... dare he? My mind blazed with blind violence. After all I'd done, everything I'd struggled to beat, how DARE he…? I could just… I just want to… I'm GOING to… but no, I'm not... Using every ounce of willpower to hold back, channeling my rage out through clenched teeth, I seethed:

"Your parents… would be ashamed of you."

And he hit me. Clocking me with a clumsy right cross, sending me back into the azalea bed. I rolled with the punch, as I'd learned from hard experience, but the pounding in my head only intensified. He could have turned the gun on me for all I knew or cared, it wouldn't have mattered. I knew what was coming. The anger, the adrenaline, the pulse rushing in my ears...

No. Remember what the therapist said. Beat it back. Take control.

Bruce wasn't making it easy for me. He looked down on me with loathing pity that went far beyond either of us. He turned, and as if forgetting he ever held the gun, the .22 dropped, clattering on the sidewalk. He stumbled off campus, back into the heart of Gotham, and soon thereafter abandoned the city entirely.

There was no one else in sight, with everyone off at class. No one to see me pull myself out of the bushes, shivering with fury. No one to see me reach for the gun, studying it the way Bruce must have, with the desperation that this—this—could be the answer to some maddening question. No one to see me put it inside my coat pocket and head back to campus, threatening to boil over with every passing second.

But no. No, I told myself. I couldn't lose it again. _Wouldn't_ lose it again. Not after I'd been so good, so very good for these last few years. I tossed the gun into the man-made lake on campus, but even that wasn't enough. I had to cool down. I had to find my head.

I looked around for any distraction that I could find and went for the only escape in sight: the art gallery. They were hosting a visiting exhibition from New York college students. A place to be alone, where everybody was lost in their own worlds.

I paced through the maze, pretending to care about the paintings and photos and pottery and sculptures as my heart pounded away, my mind reeling over Bruce, over Moroni, over Joe Chill and how justice cuts both ways, just like I told Bruce, but injustice cuts deeper...

… when a sculpture caught my eye. Amid all this crap, there was this bust of a man, straight out of some old sitcom. It should have been corny, as forgettable as the rest, but something there hooked my eye and held my feet.

"What do you think?"

It surged up again with a sharp, "What?" which deflated the second I whipped around and saw her for the first time.

In many ways, this girl was unrecognizable compared to the woman she would become. It wasn't just the glasses, nor was it the cropped hairstyle that she wouldn't grow out until we settled down several years later. Maybe it's because she hadn't yet made good on her promises to slip away, to see the world, and at this point, only had vague dreams of escape. I can only wonder what she thought of me, a fevered kid meeting her with a sneer.

"Sorry, geez!" she recoiled, ready to back off.

"No, no, I'm sorry, I'm just..." Trying to salvage the moment, I asked, "Is it yours?"

Caution mixed with relief, as if it were the first time anyone asked.

"Yeah. Thus why I asked, before you got all snappy-pants at me."

Snappy...? "Er... sorry. No, I like it. It's interesting."

"Why?"

"I dunno, it's... interesting. I'm not a critic, I don't know."

"Sure you do," she said, issuing the first of many little challenges. "It made you feel something. Or it got you thinking. Or maybe he looks like someone you know. Tell me what you got out of it."

I honestly didn't know, but considering that Professor Rexford had spent a whole semester forcing me to argue any point, any perspective, I figured that this was now a field test.

"Well..." I grasped for the words, straightening my disheveled hair. "I guess I was just caught by the... straight-lacedness of it. You've got all this arty crap hanging around here, no offense..."

"None taken. It's not _my_ arty crap."

"... and amidst it all, there's suddenly this portrait of the typical, white-bread, working-class 'Ward Cleaver' figure. All that's missing is a pipe."

I'd meant to stop there, but her lack of reply as she waited, staring at me with those pretty green eyes, caused me to give the bust a deeper examination. New details rose to the surface, and without my full realization, the words kept falling out of my mouth.

"It's strange, though. I hadn't noticed till just now, but the eyes are a little narrow. The eyebrows are down-turned. The tight smile doesn't even look like a smile at all. It's kind of... cold, with malice beneath the... the exterior of civility. Wow. I actually see what you were going for here. It's commentary, isn't it? Yeah, you're evoking that whole era of hypocrisy, back when people thought that assimilation, repression, and denial could ward off their personal demons. I see it now. Y'know, the sickest part of that era? The joke was on them. Those demons didn't go anywhere, did they? Instead, they were just given new places to hide."

Realizing that I hadn't been gauging her reactions the whole time, I turned to find her blinking at me with her mouth opening and closing as she struggled for a response.

I asked, "Shit, was I off? Sorry, I was just pulling something out of my ass."

Unable to quite vocalize her thoughts, she blushed, smiled, and darted her eyes and cocked her head toward the side of the pedestal, where my powers of observation neglected to catch the piece's title, scrawled in pen:

_"My father, Myron Gold," by Gilda Grace Lamont, Sophomore_

"... Shit."

Whatever my face did in that moment, it was enough to make her laugh so hard that she had to steady herself on the pedestal. Self-consciousness duked it out with penitence, leaving me feeling like a perfect picture of humiliation.

Red with giggles, she managed a golf clap and said, "Oh, well done, Roger Fry!"

"I don't... I mean, who's..." it didn't matter, I got the idea. "I'm so embarrassed."

"Don't be! It's fine, really!"

"No, it's not! I just intimated that your father was... was..."

"A hateful, manipulative sociopath under a carefully maintained veneer of normalcy?"

Is that what I was going for? "... Well, yes, pretty much!"

"Well, you weren't wrong," she said matter-of-factly.

"I wasn't?" She just shrugged and blushed, making it clear that she was just as flustered as I was. As her words sank in, I asked, "Jesus, I was right?"

Marveling at the bust, as if seeing her own work for the first time, she breathed a sigh of relief and said, "You are literally the only person to have seen it. No one else has, not even my teacher. She and everyone else, they just see what the rest of the world saw in Daddy, not the way he really was. And here I thought I'd done too good a job capturing him."

"God, I'm sorry."

With an indescribable smile, she said, "Don't be, seriously! I thought I was going nuts, that maybe it was all just in my head all those years."

Those words hit me in places I'd spent the last few years trying to forget.

"I know the feeling."

She scoffed, mainly out of reflex. Then she actually looked into at me, and the incredulousness vanished.

"You do, don't you?"

I could have completely lost myself in those green eyes of hers.

"So we're all right?" I asked. "I didn't make a total ass of myself?"

"No, but if we're talking anatomy, you were a bit of a dick."

Flushing with shame, I said, "I'm sorry."

"It's fine," she waved it off.

"No, it's not, this one's really not. Geez, I nearly bit your head off there. I shouldn't have done that. I should have been better than that, I... ugh." Apparently, I had nothing left but to melt down into a pit of my own self-loathing.

She raised an eyebrow and asked, "Do you beat yourself up a lot? Is this, like, your thing?"

I gaped. My face went hot.

"Teasing," she said, giving my shoulder a playful punch.

I laughed a little, then added, "I, uh... I have issues."

She shrugged and said, "Eh, who doesn't? I have a whole newsstand."

I blinked.

She said, "Of... issues?"

After another blink, I laughed harder than was probably necessary, and then said, "God, please tell me that all New York girls don't have your sense of humor."

"No," she lamented, "sadly, some aren't funny at all."

"Aren't I lucky, then?"

With a sly grin, she said, "Boy, aren't you?"

Offering my hand, I ignored the pain it caused to smile and said, "I'm Harvey."

And taking it, "One of my favorite movies. I'm Gilda."

"Hey, and that's one of mine," I said. I didn't even realize how big my smile had gotten until the pain hit. "Are you, uh... are you free tomorrow?"

"Afraid not. We're heading back to New York at six."

"Oh." If she said that to gauge my disappointment, then I didn't let her down.

"So if you're asking me out, you should do it now."

"... Oh! Well, uh... I know a great joint for coffee nearby...?"

"Yes, please," she said, brushing against my body, leading the way into my own city.

Leaving the gallery behind, I asked, "Are you sure it's all right? They don't need you here?"

Waving a hand, she slipped outside and said, "It's an open exhibition, not like a personal showing for me. Not yet, fingers crossed."

Catching up to her, I held up both hands, displaying my intertwined digits.

"Then I'm pulling double duty for you."

She smiled prettily, and was kind enough not to mention that crossing the fingers of both hands was actually bad luck.

* * *

><p>As Gilda joins me out here in the manor's courtyard, I can tell from her averted gaze that her streak of bad luck remains unbroken. Damn it. She shuts the glass doors, silencing the bustling partygoers who've barely noticed my absence.<p>

Knowing the answer, I ask, "So… how'd it go with Claridge?"

She forces a smile, but it's a wan one as she hunches over her folded arms in the chilly fall air.

"He's a schmuck," she says. Which he clearly is, but that's beside the point.

"So he wasn't interested?"

"Oh, he was interested all right, just not in art. Next thing I knew, he was chasing Bruce Wayne's leftovers. Bambi or somebody."

"Was a pool table involved?"

"How'd you know?"

"Wild guess." I slide my hand into hers, giving a squeeze. "Wanna ditch?"

"That'd be silly," she says sensibly. "We've only been here for a couple of hours."

I see right through that one. "That's a yes. Shall we go?"

"But I have to play the dutiful, long suffering politician's wife," she protests.

"Tomorrow you may be a dutiful, long suffering janitor's wife. Until then, I don't want to spend another second of my last night as a civil servant in Trust Fund Tuxedo Junction."

She gives me a look.

"Shut up, I'm tired."

"And adorable_._" Gilda grins.

Summoning up all my lawyerly authority, I very sternly begin, "Now, do you want to schmooze with guys like Pierce Chapman-"

"_Adorable!_" The grin gets wider and even more maddening.

"Or do you want to go?"

"Go?" she asks innocently. "You mean back to the _house_?"

"No," I say, "Back _home_."

She smirks the smirk to end all smirks. "See? It didn't kill you to say it."

"Come on." I pull her back into the ballroom and we somehow manage to quietly slip away without notice, giving our farewell intentions only to Alfred, as Bruce has vanished, probably eaten by his own house. A master of discretion, Alfred understands and calls the limo, all business as he sees us on our way. I wave goodbye, and he nods once. Nothing more is needed.

It's only as the gates to Wayne Manor close behind us that Gilda notices the box on the seat. A small green box, no note, no wrapping. I open the lid, and the old scents fill the limo. A tin of oatmeal raisin cookies, wrapped in cellophane.

I take a bite, the cookies still warm, and find that they're every bit as good as I'd remembered. Even after all this time, some good things still live up to the memory.

"Look at that," Gilda says, yoinking one for herself. "The night wasn't a total loss."


	5. The Bat

The limo vanishes around the block, the last trace of special treatment leaving us behind. As she flips the three locks, the door swinging open, that's when the idea hits.

"Hey, know what we should do?"

She flips on the lights, heading into the yellow kitchen, and I follow. With a sly look, she demurs, "I have a couple ideas…"

"_Besides_ that. I think we should finally hang them up. They've been rolled up in those boxes long enough."

She flips the kitchen lights, dropping her bag onto the counter beside the latest _Gotham Globe_, my face emblazoned on the front, a curly mustache scribbled in marker under my nose. Gilda likes to keep me grounded in little ways.

"Didn't we buy them, what, three years ago?"

"Six," I say. "When you visited, remember? Right before your three year jaunt around the world." "Feels like yesterday." It seems more like a lifetime ago, back when we were still kids, fresh out of college. Our first—and for all we knew, our last—summer fling before our lives went their separate ways. We bought the posters at the old Second Story bookshop, a whimsical splurge to celebrate the three best months of either of our lives. "But we can't hang them up."

"Why not?"

"Because, silly boy, we still haven't gotten them framed. This isn't your dorm room."

"I know that," I say, sounding more snappish than I'd like. "I'm saying, I'm finally going to get them framed. Tomorrow."

"And what about tonight?" she grins, leaning against the kitchen table, that dress wrapped around her body.

"Gilda, it's almost midnight, and I have a very important election to lose early tomorrow morning."

"Don't worry, you'll still be in one piece." Her hand, still in its ivory glove, hooks me by the bow tie.

Letting myself be pulled into her arms, I say, "Woman, you are insati—"

Wait. A flicker. The kitchen window. Movement in peripheral vision. Something rustles in the backyard. There and gone in an instant. On a dime, I'm drenched in panic, spine going stiff. My caress of Gilda's shoulder becomes a savage, protective grip.

"Whoa! Hey, watch it with the Kung-Fu Grip, GI Joe."

"Shhh!"

Another shift of darkness at the window, the sound of rustling fabric.

... no. No, they wouldn't be... they wouldn't. I'm a joke, they wouldn't do anything. Then again, I pointed fingers. I named names. Why shouldn't they try something now, just to make a statement? What's to stop them?

"The bat," I whisper.

"What?" Gilda asks.

"Get me the bat. Now."

She slips off to the closet without a word, returning to hand me her Louisville slugger, branded with the Yankees logo. A memento from home.

"Do you even know how to use one of these things?" she asks.

"Wait here," and I unlock the kitchen door.

"Oh no, I'm coming with…"

"Gilda." The name comes out sharply, but not out of anger. My fingers press against the screen door's mesh, pushing it taut to the breaking point. "Wait here. Please."

There's a moment, and then she nods. Just once. My fingers go white, curled around the polished wood. The backyard is a silhouette of fence and trees in front of a cloudy sky of black and midnight red. A Gotham night.

I hit the lights, and the shadows vanish in all but one spot on the patio. A living shadow. Arguably, a human being.

"Dent."

Jesus. I don't know whether to feel relieved or not. But he's real. At least now I know that he's real. The thing on his head is definitely a mask, sharp ears pointed upward. His body is draped in leather, possibly a robe. Like a Judge of Hell.

"We need to talk," he says.

Thing is, I wanted this. To meet him, if only to see just how crazy this guy really was. Back when I thought I'd win the election, I was actually going to give his actions a pass, but if this is how he thinks he can act, if he thinks he can actually sneak onto our property…

"Who the hell do you think-"

"There was no time," he says, his voice low. A hoarse whisper. "Officer McKay's going to back out. He won't testify against Tony Zucco."

… what? How the hell could he possibly know about…?

I'm about to play it off, but my face has betrayed me.

He says, "Hill may have bought it, but your act never fooled Commissioner Loeb. He's been watching you."

"And you know this, how?"

"Because I've been watching him. He was waiting for you to try something like this. He's going to use McKay to humiliate you, and Zucco will stay free."

As if I haven't humiliated myself enough. "No, that's impossible. McKay's clean. I know that for a fact. He'd never sell out."

"Not willingly. He's being blackmailed. Loeb dug around, discovered that McKay's a closeted homosexual."

He is? "So what?"

"You know what Gotham cops are like. You know what they would do to him."

Of course. Of course I do. My fists tighten around the bat.

The words hiss out, "God damn it." Then I swing, smashing into the side of the garbage can, bursting with scraps of eggshell and onion peel. "God DAMN it!"

Tense all over, I stand over the scatterings. Then I sigh and let it go, my anger dissipating in seconds. Gone.

Ten years ago, I wouldn't have stopped at that little outburst. Amazing how much has changed, which is at least some little comfort. I shake my head at the thought.

"Don't blame him," he says. "He's a good man, as you know. He's just scared. Like everyone else."

"It's not him I'm angry at, it's…" me, it's me for thinking I'd actually be able to pull this off "… them. Loeb. Moroni. Zucco. All of their kind."

"You hate them."

"I just want to see justice done," I say, letting the baseball bat sink down, resting on the patio.

"So do I."

"If you're offering to help, you can forget it."

"I'm not offering. You're getting it, one way or another."

"Why?"

"Because you need it. Because this city needs it."

Shaking my head, "No. You pervert the system. You're…" I'm about to say that he's no better than they are, stick it to him. Instead, I ask, "How are you any different?"

He shifts, almost floating in movement, black tails hanging off behind him. A seam opens, and I can see it's not a robe, but a cape. Half Dracula, half Zorro.

"Unlike them… and like you… I believe in the law. In making it mean something again. But that won't happen until we've loosened their grip."

"You can't save the law by breaking the law. Not even by bending it."

"It's their game. Their rules. They're not giving us a choice."

… It's like he knows exactly where to hit me. In this moment, it's not the mob, nor Loeb, nor McKay, nor even myself that I hate. Just him. I hate him for saying everything I've fought against believing. Everything I fear to be true. That the system is fatally flawed, and that fairness can never exist. Then, the bitter irony hits me, and I find myself laughing.

"I don't know what I'm worried about. Christ, I'm probably not even going to be elected tomorrow."

"Are you saying that because you want it to be true?"

The question catches me. For a second, I wonder if maybe that's exactly what I'm wishing.

"No. I've worked too hard to get here. If I'm stuck as an ADA, so be it. I can still work under Janet Van Dorn. Honestly, she deserves to win just as much as I do. She's fair and honest, not in anyone's pocket. Not even Hill's. The important thing is that I'll still be able to do my job, until it's time for me to run again, and do it my way next time."

"You're not going to let them win."

"No. Not even if I lose."

He nods once. "You won't lose. Trust the people of Gotham."

That's a novel thought, I suppose.

"All right. Let's say I do get elected, and that we magically somehow pull it off and 'loosen their grip.' What then? Will you hang up your cape and let the real heroes do their job?"

"If we can have a city run by men like you," he says, the cape opening to reveal a body clad in gray, with a winged emblem on his chest, "there won't be any need for men like me."

That had damn well better be true, when that time comes.

I say, "For now, I won't try to stop you, since that would just mean turning you over to a corrupt police force. But you know no matter how things turn out, I can't help you."

"It's not me that needs your help. There's a cop you should meet."

"Ugh, no more cops…"

"This one's clean, honest. And uncompromising."

"In Gotham?"

"He's newly transferred in. From Chicago."

"That's not much better."

He tosses a folder at my feet, landing with a flap amid the wet scraps and Fall leaves. Couldn't just hand it to me, no. I scoop it up and peel open the cover, finding photos of a vaguely familiar man in glasses, with a bushy mustache and a rumpled coat. The shots were taken from a secluded vantage point, as the subject climbed out of his car, morning coffee in hand. He didn't know he was being stalked. Something about it makes me queasy.

"His name is Gordon. Lieutenant James Gordon."

"Yes, I know," and I hope he damn well better not be going where I think he is with this. "He's head of the squad charged with taking you down."

"It's a wild goose chase. Loeb's trying to keep Gordon out of trouble. They're wasting manpower and good cops."

"They're just doing their job." Damn it, just say it already. Ask me to sell out. Ask me to do you a favor. To use me to keep the vigilante task force off your tail. "A job, I remind you, that someone has to do anyway."

"Not this someone," he says. "They're setting us against each other."

"Why shouldn't I just let them catch you? I could lend Gordon my full support. Convince the DA's office to do the same. We could bring you in. Tout you before the press. I'd be a hero."

"Yes. But a hero to whom?"

"Y'know, you could just go to Gordon yourself."

"He won't understand. Not yet."

"But I do?" I ask, as if he hasn't listened to a word I've said.

"Yes. I think you do."

The folder fills my hand, with all the binding import of a contract.

"You're asking me to compromise everything I believe in."

"I'm asking you to compromise with me… so you never have to compromise with them."

"But it's still a compromise."

"So is a plea bargain. You make those every day."

"That's..." Not that different, I realize with dawning comprehension. But that's just the way the system works. That's the way it _has_ to work with guys like Loeb in charge. I accepted that much long ago. Maybe...maybe he's right. Damn it. An alliance with an outlaw is more lawful than one with the lawmakers. "All right, you've made your point. But we do this my way."

He gives me nothing more than a stoic nod.

I ask, "Did you know what McKay was going to testify about?"

"Only that it had to do with Tony Zucco. The fact that Loeb intervened suggests that he or an officer in his employ is somehow involved."

"Two, actually. Would you like to know their names?"

He doesn't have to say yes. I put down the bat and pick up a broom, and as I sweep up the evidence of my tantrum, I give him a few names, a generalized location, a time, and other scraps of information that I've never been able to use myself. I give him bits and pieces, to see if he can put them together with the freedom he has. I tell him that getting actual evidence for a conviction would be ideal, but I'm content with him just making a statement.

He says, "You do realize that this will just increase their campaign against me."

Gathering all the trash into one tidy pile, I say, "That's what I'm counting on."

"Is this how you treat all your allies?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself," I warn. Now, where's the damn trashcan? I thought it was...

I turn around, and he's suddenly two feet from me, dangerously close, and he hands me the battered trashcan. Like a peace offering.

"You really are determined to help," I say.

"You're welcome." I kind of hate how I don't hate him anymore. I take the can, and damn, I made a hell of a ding. Well, it's nothing that won't pop out again. There. Just like that.

The dustpan bangs against the metal can, the final scraps back into the bag, which I tie shut in a neat bow. I replace the lid, and it's like nothing ever happened.

I turn around. "Just don't expect this to be anything more than a one-time..." but before I even get to "... thing?" I realize that I'm alone. He's gone, as if I swept him away along with the trash.

"Hello?"

Only crickets answer, like there never was a Bat-Man in my backyard.

"Hello yourself," Gilda says, the screen door opening with a creak. "Is our visitor gone?"

"So it'd seem," I say. I hand her the bat—to put it away where it belongs and hope it'll never, ever have to be used—but she takes me instead, our arms wrapping around each other. I don't kiss her any more than she kisses me, but we kiss nonetheless: a long, relieving kiss that, for a few blessed seconds, obliterates everything else.

Pulling away, she puts her head on my shoulder, and whispers, "If you ever leave me behind again, I'll brain you."

I whisper back, "Yes, dear."

"My hero," she kisses my cheek. "My brave, stupid hero."

Another kiss, and we head into the bright kitchen, leaving the outside world in darkness. I stop, but she does not, pulling me toward the bedroom. I don't resist.

"Next time," she says, "don't forget to choke up on the bat."

"Thank you, dear. How much did you catch?"

"Enough to know you were fine," she says.

"Oh good, I'm glad the crazy man in the costume set you at ease."

"Besides," she adds, hitting the bedroom lights. "I figured that my time could be better spent elsewhere."

"Doing…what?"

That's when I see them, hanging over the bed, above our respective sides. The two poster prints, framed and displayed: On the right, Jimmy Stewart in _Harvey_. On the left, Rita Hayworth in _Gilda_. The former sits alongside his imaginary pal, while the latter is decked out in her _femme fatale_ finest, accompanied by the film's immortal recurring line: "I make my own luck."

"I wanted to surprise you. You know, give you one less thing to worry about," she confesses, loosely slipping her arms around me. "By the way, you owe me six hundred bucks."

"Sue me." I say, so awed at their perfection that the price tag barely fazes me.

"Eh, but then there's all the hassle of getting a lawyer and going to court and having it drag on and on and _on..." _She smirks up at me."I don't have that much patience."

"Well, I'm afraid I haven't got that kind of money just lying around..."

"That's okay," Gilda says matter-of-factly, eyes glittering with a hint of mischief. "Maybe there's some _other_ way you can pay me."

"I don't think my wife would like that."

"Oh." She sounds genuinely disappointed, even as one of her hands creeps up my chest, fingers lazily tracing patterns around the buttons of my shirt as it goes.

"Jealous type, you know."

"Ah." My bowtie comes undone, fluttering from her questing fingers to the floor. "I understand completely."

"Good." My top button is worked free of its buttonhole. "I'm glad we're on the same page."

"Mhm." Another button, then another.

"I don't think you're listening to me," I say, pulling her into bed.

"Nope." She flips off the light and touches my face, to see me with more than eyes. "Not a word."

* * *

><p>Her hair spilling over the pillow, Gilda sleeps, curled against me in the darkness. I steal a glance at the glow of the digital alarm clock on the bedside table. It's three in the morning.<p>

It's already here. Election Day, with the polls opening in less than four hours.

Strangely, I'm not worried. Everything feels like it's going to be all right. I briefly wonder why, but the answer softly snores next to me, pulling me out of my thoughts and grounding me in the present.

I shift to kiss her forehead and I feel her smile against my chest, mumbling a little in her sleep.

Losing the election won't be so bad. By sabotaging my career, maybe I saved what was really important, despite my own wishes. I hold onto that thought while I hold onto her, until the hammer comes down. No matter what I want, perhaps this is all I need.


	6. Election Day

"A record-breaking landslide victory?" he shouts, slapping today's _Gotham Globe_ on his desk. I've seen prosecutors muster up some powerful condemnation towards witnesses on the stand, but Hill puts them all the shame as he points at me now, his words rushing out on a jumble: "How in the hell of God's blue blazes did you pull that off?"

The minute the polls opened, they were swamped with hundreds of citizens, many of them first-time voters. Election day coverage interviews revealed a pattern of cynical, disillusioned citizens suddenly revitalized by my speech, whipping into a pro-Dent frenzy literally overnight. Janet Van Dorn made her concession speech a half-hour before the booths even closed. There was just no point.

"I guess my message got through after all," is all I can say. I hope it's the truth, because honestly, I'm as floored as Hill. There's nothing quite like letting go of the prospect of actually achieving your life's goal, only to have it grab you by the throat.

Hill sinks into the chair, sweat rolling off his face, creating a hell of a job for his make-up girl. In one corner of the Mayor's office sits the gloating Commissioner Loeb, looking like one of those guys waiting to take the boots off the hanged man's feet. In the other corner, Mayoral aide Arthur Reeves looks more like a lizard than usual, trying to disappear into the background and avoid catching some of the flames being aimed my direction.

"You really have no idea how stupid you are, do you?" Hill seethes. "You don't have a clue how much you're putting us at risk. Us, not to mention yourself, and any loved ones foolish enough to associate with you. If you're lucky, you'll _just get _dragged through the mud and your reputation will be destroyed. Well, it doesn't matter, you hear me? Nothing you do or say will matter anymore, because you won't be able to do or say anything. I am going to bury you under so much red tape that you won't be able to defecate without my say-so. And maybe, just maybe, I can render you so ineffectual, so impotent, so blasted pointless that I get to save both my career and your own worthless neck. Now, is there anything, anything at all that you have to say for yourself?"

Loeb watches me like a toad waiting for a fly's wings to twitch. He's already seen the real me up at that podium, he's seen the fire inside me that he's always suspected, and now that my recklessness has been validated by the people at large in spite of Hill's maneuvering, there's absolutely nothing to hold me back. They're ready for the battle royale.

"Mister Mayor," I say, hands clasped before me, "I'm sorry."

Hill glowers, but he does so silently, which isn't a bad sign. He straightens the tie left lopsided by his tirade, his composure returning by inches until he no longer looks like he's going to have an aneurysm. A heart attack, maybe, but not an aneurysm. Loeb, on the other hand, is eating up every second. A gleeful, voyeuristic participant in my humiliation, and I'm ready to give him his full.

"While I'd like to chock it up to... to 'election night jitters' or whatever you want to call it, that's no excuse for my behavior. It wasn't just reckless on my part. It was deeply unfair to you, who's done everything for me. I promise, Mister Mayor, it will never happen again."

Hill puffs a few times to imitate thoughtfulness, then says, "It's going to take a lot more than apologies to repair the damage you've done. We'll need to work overtime to handle your little gaff. You're just fortunate that you managed to blunder your way into some semblance of success. If you hadn't..."

Just as I'm ready to make my move, Loeb makes his first.

"What's truly fortunate," the Commissioner offers, unwrapping his second cough drop in five minutes, "is that Mister Moroni did not sue this city for libel. He still may, after your boy here set up a respected businessman as public enemy number one. You," he finally acknowledges me, "owe Moroni an apology as well, yes you do."

With all the sincerity I can muster, I nod and say, "You're absolutely right, Commissioner."

I hear the lozenge clack against his teeth as his jaw stops moving, mid-chew, like the gears in a wind-up toy grinding to a halt. His confusion gives me the break I need.

Reaching for the paper on Hill's desk, I say, "I was far too hasty to indict Moroni, when the greatest threat to law and order has been staring me in the face the whole time."

In the next few seconds, the only sounds in the room are those of unfolding newsprint and the distant cheers from outside. I spread the front page on top of Hill's desk and slam my finger onto the story wedged in the bottom right corner. Nearly buried underneath the news of my victory is the story about how a drugs-for-guns deal down at the waterfront was broken up by the supposed "Bat-Man," who left a dozen bruised and terrified suspects for the press and police to find, in that order. Among those implicated were alleged crime underboss Tony Zucco and police officer Arnold Flass.

"This," I say, pounding the paper with great emphasis, "is an outrage to our boys in blue. Bad enough that this vigilante flouts our laws, but he's now attacking cops, and framing them for illegal activities? As if the men under Commissioner Loeb could be anything but spotless!"

His eyes narrow. Oh, he doesn't like that. I really shouldn't push him, especially if Hill isn't dumb enough to buy this crap himself.

"He undermines everything that you stand for, Mister Mayor. With your permission, I would like to start building a case against this 'Bat-Man' vigilante. I will see to it that he is brought to justice, and exposed for the maniac he truly is. The people need to be reassured that law and order are in the hands of Gotham's elected officials, not in those of psychos in Halloween costumes."

Hill says nothing. The wheels are turning, but they haven't locked into place yet. I play my last card.

"Mayor Hill... Hamilton... Hammy, my friend..." If I were closer, I'd have a hand on his shoulder. "Think of the _press_."

Loeb's face pales to an almost human color.

"You cannot be serious," he warns the Mayor, already knowing it's a lost cause and seeing the visions of sensationalism dancing in Hill's head. "No, you cannot."

His face tightening into a satisfied smile, Hill pounds the desk with pride. "By George, Harvey, now you're talking sense. This is precisely the message that those people need, before... er, before..."

I suggest, "Before they start taking matters into their own hands?"

"Precisely! Precisely!"

"For God's sake, we cannot even be certain that this Bat-person is even..." but Loeb doesn't finish the thought. Even if Batman isn't real- and Loeb is well aware that he is -then at least I'll be off on my own little snipe hunt, sufficiently distracted to keep from doing any more harm to Hill's reputation. Something high profile enough to keep the press happy, time-consuming enough to keep me out of Loeb's affairs and so far removed from the mob's business that maybe they won't fit me with a cement suit.

"Either way, Gil, it makes a fine statement, especially in light of what the press are saying about your men."

"Those vultures!" I add, bringing all the color back to Loeb's face and then some. A voice inside quietly goads, _Careful, Harv, don't keep poking him. Well, okay, maybe a bit more poking, but that's it._

It sounds suspiciously like my wife.

Hill says, "Harvey, you may have just salvaged your career after all. For your sake, I suggest you get to it right away."

"Yes, sir. Without a moment to lose. Of course, I will require the police department's assistance. In fact, I understand that Commissioner Loeb has formed a special vigilante task force. I should like to set up a meeting with whoever's in charge."

Loeb looks like a plum on the verge of a stroke. Nearly choking on his lozenge, he sputters, "Hamilton, I cannot endorse such a..."

"Splendid idea!" Hill says, finally returning to his natural state- glad handing politician. "Gil, I want you to arrange a meeting between Dent and that officer... er, what's his name?"

"... Gordon," Loeb says. Icicles drip from every letter. "Lieutenant James Gordon."

"That's the guy," I say. "Well, with all due respect, sirs, I really must run. Mister Mayor, thank you for the second chance. Commissioner, I look forward to meeting with your man. I have every confidence that he's the man for the job."

Reeves clears his throat, having no problem drawing attention to himself now that the storm has passed.

"Oh. Yes. Mister Reeves... uh, nice tie."

"We'll be in touch, m'boy, yes we will," Loeb says it like a threat. "Also, be sure to wave to your constituents out front. You'll want to take a good, long look at the kind of people you've won to your side."

"I'll be sure to do just that, thanks." I take three steps to the door, before I give into the temptation, glancing back over my shoulder. "Oh, and Gil? Please extend my sincerest apologies to Mister Moroni when you see him next."

I turn back and make my exit without bothering to savor his reaction, maybe because I'm afraid that the veiled insinuation pushed him too far. The fear doesn't stop the live wire feeling as I take the stairs two at a time, a nervous, electric, can't-be-still energy thrumming through my limbs.

Too cocky, Harvey, you're getting too cocky this early on. With three more months as an ADA, they can do so many things before I even take office. I can't afford to push Loeb's buttons like that again. I must keep my impulses in check, play it smart, even if I don't play it safe. I just hope that the game I'm playing is my own.

Eight steps from the first floor, I hear the roar. Dull, at first, but getting louder. I fling open the glass double doors, bursting out into the city, my city, and I'm hit by a wall of sound.

Flanked by cops, held back by security barriers, the throng explodes as it sees- they see -me, standing atop the front steps of City Hall. My immediate reaction is, quite frankly, intimidation. This is overwhelming beyond all comparison, not at all like the press conferences or banquets or benefits before which I'd been paraded for months now. Polite applause can't hold a candle to the pure, chaotic power of this crowd. While these grassroots supporters were dismissed by most, derisively dubbed the "Dent-Heads" by the _Gotham Financial Times_, I know differently. These are the real, raw, unpolished masses of Gotham, the people I worried I lost touch with in the years since I left downtown for uptown. Trepidation gives way to the thrill of their cheers, their adulation, and their chants... until I realize what it is they're actually chanting.

I hear the words over and over again, seeing them on hand-made posters, written on ballcaps with magic marker, and emblazoned on tee shirts which must have been printed up within the past few hours. I'm left reeling.

So that's why Loeb was so smug, even in defeat. He understood. He knew that my victory wasn't total, that my message didn't get through the way I wanted it to. I wanted to rouse them into action, and in a way, I succeeded. Just not as I intended. I'd hoped to appeal to the basic decency of every citizen, to rouse their spirits, to get them to stand up to the criminals themselves. BecauseI believe in Gotham, but Gotham...

_I Believe in Harvey Dent._

_I Believe in Harvey Dent._

_I Believe in Harvey Dent._

Gotham believes in _me_.


End file.
